


a distant melody

by margosfairyeye (Skittery)



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Geralt is inept at things, M/M, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Pre-Slash, Sick Jaskier | Dandelion, Sickfic, but also surprisingly competent at others
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-27
Updated: 2020-04-27
Packaged: 2021-03-01 20:00:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,732
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23882677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skittery/pseuds/margosfairyeye
Summary: “Here.”Jaskier looks up, and sees Geralt kneeling over him, a bowl of sour-smelling liquid in his hand.  Jaskier groans and waves him off.  He feels like garbage already, no need to make it worse with suspicious soup.“If you’re trying to kill me,” Jaskier says weakly, “you’re nearly too late.”
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 14
Kudos: 375





	a distant melody

**Author's Note:**

> thanks to [zade](https://archiveofourown.org/users/zade) for beta-ing and for giving me the prompt that inspired this idea.
> 
> Also I hesitated posting this because I feel like this is a weird time for a sickfic, but here we are.

“Here.” 

Jaskier looks up, and sees Geralt kneeling over him, a bowl of sour-smelling liquid in his hand. Jaskier groans and waves him off. He feels like garbage already, no need to make it worse with suspicious soup. 

“If you’re trying to kill me,” Jaskier says weakly, “you’re nearly too late.”

Geralt frowns, and there’s not even the glint behind his eyes that says he knows Jaskier is just taking the piss out of him, no comeback on his lips; Geralt is just actually, purely worried. Which makes Jaskier just a tad bit worried himself. 

They are stopped in a small clearing, trees ringing it like sentinels. They’re in between towns, in between jobs, but flush from the last job, and everything was going well until Jaskier suddenly started feeling ill. Now he’s lying on a pile of their bedrolls, clutching his stomach as it roils acidically, his throat tasting of bile and his head pounding and his vision ricocheting between blacking out and seeing double. Jaskier has been ill before, of course, but not usually in these circumstances, where they’re in the middle of a forest with no one around. Where Geralt is the only one around to help. 

And Geralt, as it turns out, is very able at mending wounds and killing monsters, but a bit shit at helping an actual sick person. He laid out the blankets for Jaskier, sure, and has been checking on him quite a bit, but other than that he seems at a loss for what to do. Jaskier hasn’t lost consciousness yet, and he can still think clearly, so he doesn’t think it’s dire just…he would give almost anything for a bowl of proper chicken soup and a soft bed. 

“It’s soup,” Geralt says uncertainly. “It might help.” 

“Is it  _ magic _ soup?” Jaskier asks, perking up a little bit. If Geralt has a magical flu cure, that would be very convenient. 

Geralt frowns, looking into the soup like it might be hiding its true nature from him. “Magic? No, it’s just… soup might help.”

Jaskier can feel his face fall, and he regrets that feeling so terrible has impacted his ability to hide his disappointment from Geralt. At the same time, though, there is no way he’s eating the sketchy soup, which he is almost certain consists of water and whatever Geralt could forage in the last hour. 

“Maybe just some water?” Jaskier asks, his stomach lurching unpleasantly. He’s already planned out his path in the event that he has to disappear to hide retching from Geralt, but so far the illness has at least spared him that. 

Geralt nods and disappears, moving out of Jaskier’s field of vision. Jaskier clutches his stomach and bites down an unhappy groan. It feels like hours before Geralt comes back, kneeling down to press the lip of a cup against Jaskier’s mouth. The water is cool and Jaskier groans happily as the clean taste replaces that of bile. Fuck, he really hates being sick. 

“Better?” Geralt asks, moving the water away from Jaskier’s lips. Jaskier nods. “Good.” 

Geralt runs a hand across Jaskier’s forehead, brushing fever-damp hair off of it. His hands are cool to Jaskier’s skin, and it’s such a soft gesture that Jaskier stops breathing, all of his attention concentrated on the gentle touch. That combined with the worry in Geralt’s eyes and the scent of him on the bedrolls Jaskier is lying on is overwhelming. The touches are so plainly full of care that he doesn’t know how to reply. 

His awe turns into a weak and helpless laugh, and Geralt pulls his hand back. Jaskier wants to protest, but doesn’t know what words will scare Geralt off even further. He’s probably just concerned because Jaskier is sick, and witchers don’t get sick, not like this, so it’s unfamiliar. It’s nothing more than that. 

With that rationalized, Jaskier sighs and closes his eyes. He doesn’t think he can really rest, not while he feels so completely terrible, but he can at least allow himself to sink in and out of consciousness, let the fever run its course. 

It’s a terrible, half-sleep filled with almost awareness of Geralt talking to him and worrying over him contrasted with horrible fever dreams. He wakes up shaking, strangled yells caught in his throat. He thinks he might have had some of the awful soup, or possibly he just imagined it. Hours pass like this, the moon creeping higher in the sky, the fire burning down to embers. 

“Fuck,” Geralt says, as Jaskier wakes up with a soft whine, “tell me how to fix it.”

Jaskier laughs shakily, running his hand along his face, along his stomach. Everything hurts, and he doesn’t have a good answer. Geralt rests his hand on top of Jaskier’s, and Jaskier is again thrown by the casual way he does it, like this is something they just  _ do.  _ It’s distracting, and overwhelming, and Jaskier doesn’t know what to do about it. 

He says the first thing that comes to mind. “Music would help.” Whenever he was sick, as a child, his governess would bring in musicians, or play at her harp, insisting that music would help soothe his mind. Maybe she was right, or maybe he just became accustomed to it, but he craves that now—something to take his mind off his aching. 

Geralt scrambles off the ground and Jaskier watches him go to Jaskier’s pack and pick up his lute, bringing it over to where Jaskier lies. Jaskier waves it away, laughing weakly, wondering when the hell Geralt became so accommodating. 

“Thanks but,” he winces, “I doubt I could even hold it right now.”

Geralt nods, but keeps his grip on the instrument, looking at Jaskier with that soft, concerned expression. If he wasn’t worried about how moving would affect his current condition, Jaskier thinks he might take Geralt’s face in his hands and press their lips together. Maybe it’s better that he can’t, Jaskier thinks idly as his eyes close. 

When Jaskier wakes up again, it’s to the soft sound of music. He floats in the space between dreams and wakefulness, uncertain if the music is coming from inside his head or not. 

Jaksier opens his eyes and looks around. The fire is completely out now, the only light provided by the moon. Geralt is sitting a few feet away from him, on a tree stump, and he’s playing Jaskier’s lute. 

Jaskier is suddenly wide awake, his shock temporarily overriding his consciousness of how shitty he feels. Geralt is playing his lute. Geralt is sitting bent over  _ Jaskier’s _ instrument, his hands lightly pressing and plucking the strings. It’s quiet, but not uncertain, not like he’s picking it out for the first time. No, Geralt  _ can actually play. _

The song isn’t familiar, but it’s beautiful—filled with longing, rising and falling like breaths, like sighs. Jaskier blinks. Geralt might actually be better than he is. Certainly his voice couldn’t come anywhere near Jaskier’s—not that Jaskier isn’t suddenly filled with the desire to hear him sing—but his  _ playing _ might actually be more subtle, more effective. 

Geralt turns around and stops, looking at Jaskier. “You’re awake.”

Jaskier nods. HIs entire brain seems to have fallen apart at the sight and sound of Geralt  _ playing his fucking lute _ , and he doesn’t want to say anything that might make Geralt stop doing so. “You play?” 

Geralt smiles, something soft and sad that Jaskier hasn’t seen before. “I’ve been alive a long time, and often alone—I’ve picked up some things.” 

“No, you play  _ well.” _

Geralt keeps smiling that smile, and Jaskier feels warm in a way that has nothing to do with his fever. Geralt shrugs. “You asked for music.” He lowers his voice, looking down at the lute instead of at Jaskier. “I want you to get well.”

Warmth blooms inside Jaskier, and he wishes Geralt would put the damn lute down and come lie with him, just so Jaskier could wrap his arms around him and fall asleep like that. Jaskier is already feeling better; he knows he’s going to be fine, but the amount that Geralt seems to care is…unexpected. Not unwanted, but unexpected. 

Geralt smiles at him again, and then turns back to the lute, plucking out the same song of yearning, softly and steadily. Jaskier listens until he can’t keep his eyes open anymore and falls back asleep. 

The next morning, Jaskier feels better, his mind clearer and his pain resolved into duller aches. As soon as he wakes up, the memory of Geralt playing hits him like a brick, and he wonders if it was real or not. His lute is back with his pack, in its case against a tree, looking like it could have sat there all night undisturbed. Jaskier knows he could have imagined it, but he’s not sure even his imagination could conjure that particular image. 

Geralt offers him solid food, which Jaskier is thankfully able to tolerate, and they get ready to leave like everything is normal. 

“You can put those on Roach,” Geralt says when Jaskier starts lifting his packs onto his back. Jaskier blinks at him. “You’re recovering,” Geralt clarifies, shrugging. 

It feels strange, but at least he’s not trying to force soup on him, so Jaskier just nods and starts to pack his things among Geralt’s. Geralt is standing close to him, his fingers deftly working at Roach’s saddle, and Jaskier knows that if he doesn’t ask in this moment, he never will. 

“You played my lute,” Jaskier says, and Geralt turns to him sharply. “Last night. That was real, right?”

Geralt nods gruffly. “I thought it might…help.”

“You’re exceptionally good at it,” Jaskier says happily, then, “It did help.”

“If you tell anyone, I’ll kill you,” Geralt says, but despite the threat, Jaskier can see the warmth in his eyes. Geralt wouldn’t spend so much energy trying to keep him well unless the threats were empty. 

Jaskier laughs, and steps back as Geralt mounts and they start along their path. He wants to ply Geralt with questions—about how he learned and what the songs were—but for the moment he keeps quiet. As they walk, Jaskier moves his fingers through the air, trying to teach himself the chord progression Geralt had played the night before, to cement it in his memory before it fades away.

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> gabe wanted me to note hir opinion that after living so long Geralt would probably make good soup, and Jaskier should fucking chill. 
> 
> come say hi to me [on tumblr](margosfairyeye.tumblr.com)!


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